


I'm You, Aren't I?

by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, M/M, Season/Series 03, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened had Mrs Hudson thought better of bringing a client up when she knew the boys were pissed on John's stag night?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm You, Aren't I?

"I'm _you_ , aren't I?"

John laughed and laughed and laughed himself silly, sliding down as though he would ooze right out of the chair onto the floor, with only his foot on Sherlock's chair opposite preventing total dissolution.

"What?" said Sherlock.

***

Mrs Hudson, hearing John's laughter through the door, paused on the stairs with her hand outstretched to knock. Then she drew it back and turned to the dark-haired young lady in the nurse's uniform on the steps just below her. A case was a case, but this didn't seem like a matter of life and death. It could wait a day.

"You know, dear, I'm so sorry but I wonder if you could come back tomorrow…? Only, Mr Holmes' friend is getting married and they've been drinking and he's just not at his best. You understand." She didn't go on to say they were both terrible lightweights, home within two hours of going out, lying on the stairs. Even Mrs Hudson could have done better than that.

"Oh, of course!" agreed the nurse, nice young lady really. "Stag night then? Hate to be mistaken for a stripper!" And they had a bit of a laugh over that and the nurse wrote her number on a bit of paper and went away.

Mrs Hudson held on to it, wisely deciding not to go back up to slip it under the door. She could hand it over to John tomorrow when she made her amazing hangover breakfast fry-up for him.

***

" _No_ , you complete - you utter - " John, once he had finally stopped laughing, was not able to find a word sufficiently rude, so he leaned forward and snatched at the label on Sherlock's forehead - an operation complicated by Sherlock's uncanny ability, even when drunk, to dodge things that came flying towards his head. "Hold still and let me - "

Sherlock, apparently coming to the understanding that he was not being punched this time, had swayed forwards again to placidly allow John to do whatever it was he was doing. John's hand ended up on Sherlock's shoulder, hard muscles under that trim jacket. With his other hand he finally pulled the label off of Sherlock's forehead.

"You're _you_ , you twat," John said, showing him. "And here, what's mine, since you have no idea - " pulling off his own, surprisingly painful, and held the two names side by side, squinting and trying to make sense of what he saw.

"Madonna?? Jesus, Sherlock."

"You think I'm nice-ish?" Sherlock said hopefully. He set down his glass of whiskey and managed to knock it over in the process. Neither of them noticed until the next day.

"More than ish," John said. "Sometimes you're really - decent." He had been more than that since he came back, helping to plan the wedding, treating Mary like part of John's life. Being there. "I told you, you're my best friend."

Sherlock liked that. John liked seeing him light up to hear it, now that it didn't make his brain screech to a halt. Now that he'd heard it a couple of times, it made him smile. And he had a good smile. "Good smile," John said aloud, nodding. It seemed important to say it. Sherlock sometimes seemed like he could hear John thinking, but now? Probably not now.

"I could think all sorts of things and you couldn't tell," he told Sherlock.

"You're always doing that."

"What?"

"Thinking things I don't know about. I can read so much about you John, but never… never everything."

John leant forward and put his hand on Sherlock's knee again. Sherlock's head rocked a bit on his neck, but his gaze was soft and there was a smile on his lips. Just as John was focussing on that, Sherlock licked his lips - just a little - the tip of his tongue appearing and disappearing like a ripple on the surface of a lake.

John shivered.

Sherlock said, in a wondering voice, eyes avid on John's face, "John. Your pupils."

"What," lifting a hand to his brow as though he could feel what his pupils were doing that way. - It was not the hand that was touching Sherlock's knee. That one stayed put.

"They just dilated while I was looking into them," Sherlock said, utterly enchanted.

"I'm sure they did," John said hoarsely.

"That seemed - in _very_ credibly - intimate." This shy look, John had never seen it before. And the word 'intimate' took Sherlock an unreasonably long time to say, his voice pouring like honey.

"More than my hand on your knee?" John patted it. For emphasis.

Sherlock looked down and frowned. Then he smiled again, rather lopsidedly, looking up.

"Yes."

"Inverycredibly?" John leaned closer, grinning.

"That's what I said." With great effort, like a ship coming about, Sherlock leaned forward so that their noses almost touched. He squinted, staring into John's eyes.

John took hold of Sherlock's collar with his free hand, and pulled him in the rest of the way. Sherlock made a little squawk of surprise, quickly cut off.

 _Kissing you,_ John thought at him while he was doing it. _What d'you think of that?_

After a minute, panting, he said, "Sherlock could you not clench your teeth."

"Oh," either he hadn't known he was doing it, or he hadn't known you weren't supposed to. Sherlock unclenched his teeth.

That worked so much better.

John had finally released Sherlock's knee and let his hand wander over that well-known, beloved face that he had missed _so much._ But it was an afterthought really, as almost all of John's available attention was on Sherlock's mouth.

Both of their mouths were sour with various alcohols, and Sherlock had smoked a cigarette sometime this evening on the sly: John could taste a hint of the tobacco. Sherlock's mouth, like his head, like his hands, was unreasonably _big_ and he didn't quite know how to kiss properly. He tried, and he tried to learn as they went along, but he was helplessly pissed. They both were. Their teeth clicked together.

It was brilliant.

John wanted to take Sherlock to bed. Bed would be so good. But…  even Sherlock's bed was too far away, and John's may as well have been in another country. Another whole flight of stairs? _Hell_ no.

Sofa, then.

Sherlock had to be persuaded out of his chair; he was disinclined to leave it. John tugged at his arm to no avail.

"Come here," said John. "Please?"

"What for."

"I need you over there."

"All right." And Sherlock levered himself up and stood swaying and blinking until nudged again.

"Sofa," John said, and Sherlock went to it.

"Well, now I'm sitting down again. What did I move for?"

"Lie down. No, on your back."

Finally. John climbed aboard.

Sherlock looked up at him. His hair was in dark disarray around his head, a clumsy halo. His lips were shiny-wet. And his pupils were enormous. The thin ring of iris which showed around them was like pale turquoise.

No more words.

John kissed Sherlock, on the sofa, on his stag night. More than kissed. He _ground into_ Sherlock and Sherlock had his hands on John's arse and clearly, they had both needed this so much. This. Touching. Snogging. Groping.

Admitting it without having to _talk_ about it.

It went on for what felt like ages. Then it slowed down. Sherlock seemed to move less urgently, his hands gentling. John didn't mind. He was able to be gentle sometimes. It still felt good.

Sherlock's kisses became less and less coordinated, and soon John had lifted his head and was staring down incredulously.

"Sherlock," he said, but softly.

John sat up, still straddling Sherlock's hips, and stared down at his best friend, now boneless and breathing deeply. "You bastard, you fell asleep on me." Then he laughed helplessly for a moment. "Under me. Dammit."

Mary had been tactful about what John might get up to on his stag night. She had made it clear that he should feel free to do whatever he wanted. He knew even at the time, of course, what she really meant. It had seemed - a little too far, he'd thought at the time she said it. But it was a gesture easily made. There was no chance of any such thing. Sherlock was deaf to the music of sex.

Only, he wasn't. Maybe she guessed that.

John had only meant to get _himself_ properly drunk, not the both of them. It was his own fault that Sherlock was overwhelmed. On this night of all nights - when he had permission - if only they could have done _more_ -

John looked down into Sherlock's sleeping face. The expression he saw there belonged on an angel - a warm, relaxed smile giving his beautiful mouth a sweetly quirky curve. Sherlock's slack hands, so big and warm, were still on John's hips.

Very slowly, John settled back down on top of Sherlock once more, this time resting his head on Sherlock's chest. The warmth, the hypnotic beat of his heart, the familiar scent of him worked like chloroform on John, robbing him of consciousness within seconds.

And he slept this way for a while, relaxed and smiling himself.

Some time later John was awakened unceremoniously, dumped off the sofa and onto the floor, opening his eyes in time to see Sherlock staggering down the hall to the loo, from which issued the sounds of him being magnificently sick.

John crawled back up onto the sofa while it was still warm from Sherlock's body, and knew no more till the sunlight of morning broke over his head with a vengeance.

**Author's Note:**

> From this point, the main story would reassert itself. 
> 
> I saw [reapersun](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/) asking for stag night fics on tumblr last week, so I gave it a go. It's a wonder I could write anything at all waiting for His Last Vow to air tomorrow. Much excitement and also trepidation!


End file.
